Getting Right
by 3rdgal
Summary: A series of oneshots exploring the 'bad neighborhood' in Don's head, told from his POV.
1. Rock Bottom

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters and I don't make any money off of them.

**A/N:** Thanks as always to ritt, the world's best beta and sounding board!

**A/N2:** This is a side project of mine that will be an ongoing series of oneshots that I post as they come to me. I've never tried anything like this before, so I hope you all enjoy!

"**Rock Bottom"**

I can't feel anything inside.

I'm empty. Void. _Dead._

I need to feel. Pain, despair… _something_. Anything but the way I do.

I'm tired of being this way. What's wrong with me? I don't want to do anything I used to enjoy. Be around anyone who I care about.

No one wants to be with _me_ either. I reach out in an awkward ways and get… nothing. Am I that bad? That no one – not even friends and family – cares enough to respond to me? Or have I lost all ability to communicate?

Oh God what I would give to _feel_ again. To rid my mind and heart of this emptiness.

And why? Why do I feel this way? What did I do? My life's not bad – not by a long shot. I have family and friends who – despite their lack of response – I know on an instinctual level do care about me. So why don't they know what to do to help me?

I'm left to go through the motions of my days, just waiting for them to be over. I can't even bring myself to go to Charlie's house. I feel trapped and claustrophobic when I'm there. Why? What's so wrong with me that my own father and brother should make me feel so uncomfortable?

I sit in the dark in my apartment as I try to feel again. It's been six days since I've seen my family and three days since I last spoke to Charlie on the phone, tossing out assurances without any conviction in my voice.

So I'm sure that's why I hear a key turning in the lock… the door opening. I sense the small shadow creeping down the hallway. I hear footsteps – hesitant and uncertain – and wonder what my brother will say when he sees me. I don't even know what I would say to myself and, God help me, that's what hurts so bad.

The shadow comes to stand in front of me, no doubt studying the red-eyed, exhausted, soulless pile of flesh that I have become. He seems unsure of what to say. Well, that makes two of us.

A second shadow appears and I am compelled to look up. I see both of their worried expressions and I wish I could say I felt guilty about being the cause but again, that would mean actually being able to _feel_.

The silence stretches on until I'm certain I will drown in it. Then one word slips from my father's mouth, soft but full of love and concern. "Donny."

I don't respond – what is there to say?

Charlie pushes one step further. "Are you okay?"

And God help me, but I don't know what to say…

--

The next morning I wake to an overcast day. At least my mood and the weather have coordinated with each other. I lie still for a moment as I think about the day stretching out before me, dreading how I'll manage to face it. Then I notice something – there's someone moving around in the other room. Two 'someones' if the muffled voices are any indication. Then it rushes back to me – Dad and Charlie. They'd come over last night to check on me and apparently, despite my insistence that I would be okay, decided to stay the night.

I glance over the side of my bed and roll my eyes in resignation. The small armchair I keep in my room is still by the window where I keep it but the indentations in the carpet tell me it has been moved and put back. Apparently once I passed out for the night, I'd had two guardian angels watching over me. Good ol' Dad and Charlie.

As much as I appreciate their help, I just want to be left alone. I know they'll be hurt when I tell them so I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the chore as I get out of bed. I make a pit stop in my bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror. My God, if I looked like that last night I should count my blessings they didn't have me committed. I splash cold water on my face, give up on the arduous – if not impossible – task of improving my appearance, and cautiously step into my living room.

"Good morning," Charlie greets me with a small smile as he sits on my couch. I'm a little surprised as my normally oblivious brother manages to find the perfect balance between morning cheer and sympathetic tone.

"Morning," I return, not quite up to calling it 'good'. "Dad's cooking?"

"Yeah. Should be ready in a few minutes."

"Nice of him but I'm not really hungry."

Charlie pauses for a moment, and I'm sure he must be gathering up courage, because I know what's coming next and I'm pretty sure it will irritate me. "You need to eat, Don. You've… you've lost some weight. That's not good."

Now that he's mentioned it, my clothes have been feeling a little looser. Still, if I wasn't hungry he and Dad shouldn't try to force me to eat. I almost groan out loud as it occurs to me that getting me to eat probably isn't their only goal this morning. "I'll see what I can manage. No promises, though."

"Well, it's Mom's old pancake recipe he's using, so I think you'll be able to choke something down." I swear there's a twinkle in his eye when he says that and I almost laugh…

But I don't. I can't. Laughing means feeling good and if I feel good, then that means what..? That I've been sitting around and moping out of self-pity? That I could have shaken the blues at any time, I just chose not to?

"Don? Are you okay?"

Oh God, the worry in his voice almost breaks my heart. To know that I'm doing this to him… probably Dad, too… what kind of person does that make me?

"_Don?"_

No mistaking the near-panic in his voice now. At first I wonder why but then I feel the moisture trickling down my cheek. I'm crying in front of Charlie. Me. The hard-ass, 'show-no-emotion' FBI agent is crying – check that – practically _sobbing _on his living room couch. I quickly cover my face because obviously that will keep Charlie from realizing how upset I am.

"Shh, Don," he whispers and scoots closer to me. I feel uncertain hands land on my shoulders and, if anything, my despair increases.

Why are you being so good to me, Charlie? Why are you wasting your time? I'm not worth it. Just somebody who can't get out of a little funk.

Another pair of hands surprise me, only these are stronger and more confident. I'm gathered into someone's arms and tightly embraced. I wish I could say it helps, but it doesn't. Not at all. And that scares me.

"Donny," my father whispers, his voice sounding as emotional as I feel. "It's going to be okay, son. We can get you help."

Help? What, Dad, you think I've finally lost my marbles? Big words I guess coming from a thirty-five year old man who is sobbing in his father's arms. Oh God, I just want this to end… I can't keep feeling this way.

"I know, Donny. I know."

I said that out loud? Please, just leave me alone Dad. Your love… it's making me feel worse. I feel guilty… I… I don't want to do this to you.

"Take some deep breaths," my father advises me. "I don't want you hyperventilating and passing out on me, okay?"

I nod against his chest and sniffle loudly as I obey. This is so embarrassing.

"That's better, son, Good job." I feel him shift beside me and he holds me out at shoulder length so he can look at me. I'm too embarrassed to return the gaze, so I find an interesting spot on the sofa to study. "I want you to listen to me very carefully, Donny."

I drag a hand across my eyes, wiping away the wetness I feel there. Once I think I've gotten what little composure I'm capable of, I nod for him to continue.

"Here's what I want to do. I want you to call in to work today – tell them you have the 'flu or something – but make arrangements not to go in. Can you do that for me?"

"I have cases…" I mumble.

"Be honest with me and with _yourself_… Do you really think you can make any progress on them when you're like this?" I shrug and he takes that as a sign of agreement. "Then let's call Doctor Bradford and get you an appointment, sometime today or tomorrow would be best."

I finally summon up the courage and look into his eyes. "Dad…" my voice gives out and I lick my lips. "I… I'm not suicidal."

He regards me in silence as he gently smiles at me. "I know that, Donny. And I know you'd never hurt anyone either." I firmly nod, thankful he knows me so well. "But… you don't have to live your life like this, son. There are treatments that can help."

I nod again – geez, is that all I'm capable of doing? Truth be told, I'm terrified of what I might discover about myself if I dig too deeply. That's one of the reasons I keep the real Don Eppes buried beneath layer upon layer of professional detachment. But at this point, things are so bad, I'm willing to face whatever I need to face to be able to move on. I miss being happy… I really do.

"Okay, Dad, I can do that."

"Good, son, That's really good."

I nervously finger the hem of my tee shirt. "Will you… I mean if it's not too much trouble… could you…"

"You want me to go with you?" he asks.

"Yeah." As much as I don't want to appear weak in front of him, I don't think I can face this alone. And that means… I glance over at Charlie, who has remained silent but hasn't let go of me yet. "Buddy?"

He nods with conviction. "Count me in, Don. For as long and whenever you need me, I'll be there." He flashes that playful grin of his and chuckles. "Probably more than that, too."

Before I can catch it, a laugh slips from my lips. I immediately frown but my father squeezes my shoulder to get my attention.

"It's okay to be happy, Donny. I know it doesn't feel like it, but it _is_ okay."

He's right, it doesn't feel okay, but then nothing does right now. Maybe… maybe Dad's right about getting help. After all, I've reached a point where things can't get any worse. Might as well give it a shot. Especially if it will ease their minds, too. I smile weakly at the two of them as I free myself from their grasp. "I've got a phone call or two to make."

"Good," Dad beams. "We'll be right here when you're done."

I nod. "I know. And… thanks."

"Any time."

--

I sit and stare at the phone as if I'm not sure how to use it. I mean I've already called into work and told them I won't be there – that was easy enough. But now… Call Bradford and tell him I need an appointment ASAP because… what? I'm messed up? Royally screwed up in the head? Right, that's exactly the kind of thing I want to admit to. "Hey Doc, I've become a head case lately. Mind booking me an appointment?"

Yeah. Whoopee. Yee-haw. Let me go right ahead and do that. While we're at it, maybe we could book a room for me in some nice, peaceful facility where I can spend the rest of my days staring mindlessly at the sun.

Again I ask myself how in the hell did I get to this point? Sure, my job is full of stress but it always has been. And I function well at my job, despite what my dad seems to think. In fact, I can't think of a single trigger that might have sent me spiraling downward into this… Damn, I don't want to say it. I can't say it because it can't be true.

Oh wow, I can even picture it. Me and Bradford in his office and him informing me, "There's nothing wrong with you Eppes. Man up and quit being a baby." Gee, I wonder if it will be worse to find out that I am mentally messed up or that I'm perfectly normal. And who in the world ever thinks they'll eventually ask themselves that question?

"Donny?"

"I'll be out in a minute." Don't push, Dad. At this point I'll probably push back just as hard.

"Okay, son."

The worry in his voice gnaws at my conscience. "Sorry, Bradford's line is busy." Oh Lord, where did that lie come from?

"Oh, okay. Well we can eat and you can try again later."

"Sounds like a plan." At least the first part does.

I toss the phone down onto the mattress and rise from the bed. Who knows? Maybe I will call after breakfast. Or maybe later this evening. Or tomorrow.

Yeah, right.


	2. Looking Up

"**Looking Up"**

"So, Donny," my father says after we've finished breakfast and Charlie is saddled with the dishes. "You want to try Bradford again?"

No, Dad, I really don't. I make a show of looking at my watch. "He's probably in session now."

Dad nods wisely and with a look on his face – one that usually means I'm about to get busted. "Do you think that's why his line was busy earlier?"

"Probably."

"Odd, don't you think, that a therapist wouldn't have voicemail?"

Dad one, stupid Fed son zip. Think, Don, _think_. "You're right – he does usually have voicemail. Maybe his line is messed up or something."

"You should try it again and see if it's working. If not, surely he has an email address you could use to communicate with him."

"I'll have to check on that."

Dad leans close so that Charlie won't be able to hear him from the kitchen. "Depression is a very treatable condition."

I stare back at Dad, dumbfounded by his assessment. "Huh?"

Dad smiles, a slow sad smile that seems to go with the hint of moisture in his eyes. "I've noticed some changes in your behavior that concerned me, so I did some research online. I found a wonderful article on how family and friends can recognize when a loved one is depressed and how to help them through it."

"I've just been feeling a little blue the past couple of weeks," I say defensively. "Depression is a bit of a stretch."

"No, Donny. Your symptoms have been more severe the past couple of weeks but this started a few months ago."

I shake my head in disbelief. There's no way I've been like this for months. No way at all. I mean, I would have noticed… wouldn't I?

"Sometimes the person affected has a hard time recognizing it in themselves. Let me ask you this, Donny – and be honest with me." He gives me that stern, 'don't-patronize-me' look and I find myself nodding. "I've noticed you stop by the house less and less and when you do, it's not the same Don who used to clean out my refrigerator." He says the last part with a twinkle in his eye and I reluctantly smile back. "You've even lost some weight over the past few months. Your eyes don't light up like they used to, I haven't seen you really smile in ages, your work always seems to be pressing you down and… well, the last time you were over and there was a baseball game on TV, you didn't look at the screen a single time." He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes tightly. "Does that sound like you?"

I shrug, my stubborn pride not willing to admit defeat.

"It's not," Dad states firmly, letting me know I dare not argue with him. "And you know what? It's treatable, Donny. You just have to take the first step and I know you're strong enough to do that."

"I don't… I'm not…" I let my voice trail off as I have trouble making myself say the words.

"You _are_ strong enough," my father insists. "And even if you don't think you are, that's why I'm here."

"Me too."

I whip my head around, horrified that Charlie might have heard most of this conversation. I was really hoping to remain the dependable big brother in his eyes. "Charlie…"

"What?" he shrugs as he sits next to me. "We all need help sometimes, Don. And God knows I owe you for all the times you've helped me." He grins and drapes an arm around my shoulder. "I love you to death but now is not the time to be the stubborn, mule-headed brother I've known and annoyed over the years."

Damn him but he just made me laugh. And… it felt kind of good. Maybe… "You're sure you don't mind going with me?"

Dad shakes his head in exasperation. "Of course we don't and please stop asking that. We're here no matter what you need or when you need it. Got it?"

I feel a blush creep up my neck and I suddenly feel self-conscious. "Yeah, I got it." I stand up, clasping and squeezing my father's hand as I remove it from my shoulder. "Okay, I really am going to make that phone call now."

I quickly return to my bedroom, snatch the phone off the bed and dial Bradford's number before I can chicken out again. I was expecting voicemail so I am extremely startled when I hear the man himself.

"Doctor Bradford speaking."

I swallow past the dryness in my mouth and clear my throat. "Hey, this is Don Eppes."

"Don," he greets me with a warm tone. "How's it going?"

"Um… not too well, actually. That's why I was calling."

"I see. What can I do to help?"

"I was sort of hoping you might be able to squeeze me in today or tomorrow?" There's a moment of silence that seems to stretch on forever. My heart starts fluttering and my stomach imitates a gymnast, doing somersaults and making me feel ill. God, why isn't he answering?

"I'm sorry Don, but I don't have any open slots."

I think I stop breathing. In fact, my whole body seems to be paralyzed.

"But you know what? I respect the hell out of you and I know you're a strong individual, so if you need me I want to be there for you. Can you meet me at my office tonight, after normal hours?"

I manage to take a breath. "Sure."

"Around eight-thirty? I know it's a little late but I want to make sure we can be uninterrupted."

"That's great, thanks." I lick my lips nervously before informing him "Dad and Charlie will be bringing me."

"That's fine. Tell me, Don, would you like them involved in our session or not?"

Do I? I have no clue and say as much.

"Tell you what, how about we start off and if we need them we can pull them in? And if not, they'll both be there for you when we're through."

"Thanks, Doc." We say our good-byes and I disconnect the call, tossing the now harmless phone onto the mattress. I don't believe it could have happened just from one call but I swear… I _think_… Is it possible I already feel better? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I do.

_The first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem and deciding to do something about it._

I'll be. As clichéd as it sounds, it appears to be true. And with that thought ringing through my head, I'm off to share the good news with Dad and Charlie.


	3. Seeing the Light

"**Seeing the Light"**

"So, Don," Bradford greets me in that always-calm tone of voice. "What's been going on with you?"

"Nothing," I shrug for lack of a better way to put it.

He raises an eyebrow. "You wanted to meet with me at eight-thirty at night because _nothing_ has been going on?"

"What I mean," I start and suddenly find that my mouth is very dry. Why should this be so hard to say? I mean this guy already knows me inside and out, or at least he sure as hell manages to give me that impression. "What I mean is… I've been feeling very… depressed lately and there's nothing that should have caused it."

"No rough cases at work?"

"They're all rough – you know that. But none more so than usual."

"A larger than normal caseload?"

I shake my head. "If anything the cases have been fewer and farther between." I smile dryly. "Like the city finally realized we could use a break."

Bradford just nods and I'm left to wonder what conclusion he just made in that cryptic head of his. I guess I'll find out soon enough.

"No problems with Charlie? Your father?"

"No, not in the least. I've… I guess I've sort of been avoiding them. I've been keeping to myself a lot lately."

He makes a note on the pad on his desk. "So you haven't had your normal support network?"

Support network? Since when are Dad and Charlie considered my 'support network'?

"They're the ones you go to when you need to unwind, no?"

Damn mind reader. "Sometimes, I guess. Dad's food usually does do the body and soul good."

"And that's the only reason you go?"

What the hell? I came here because I was depressed, not because I wanted to hash out family dynamics. "Look, I really don't see what they have to do with the way I've been feeling…"

"One of the major signs of depression is avoidance of loved ones and friends." He pauses and I know what's coming even before the words get past his lips. "How's Liz?"

I narrow my eyes. "We've cooled our heels a bit."

"You're idea or hers?"

"Sort of mutual." His gaze bores into me and I find myself confessing. "Okay, maybe more me."

"So you _have_ isolated yourself?"

Isolated? He makes it sound like I've gone home to my apartment and shut myself off from the world… Well, I guess… "I've been getting a lot of 'me' time." I'll be damned if he doesn't chuckle.

"_Me_ time? You've got a hell of a way with euphemisms, Don." He taps his pen on his desk and studies me with an unnerving stare. "Your sleeping habits have changed?"

"Does not sleeping count?"

He nods and gives me a stern look. "As does sarcasm."

I have the presence of mind to look contrite.

"Lack of interest in activities you use to find pleasurable?"

I shake my head bitterly. "That would imply I had any hobbies to enjoy. I work, Doc, you know that."

"And you used to dine with your family and spend time with them."

I mull this over in my head. I _have_ been feeling uncomfortable at Charlie's house. Maybe he's on to something. "Yeah, I don't enjoy that so much anymore."

Bradford makes one more notation on his pad before flipping it shut and fishing into his desk drawer. He pulls out a survey and slides it across the desk, clicking a pen open and setting it on top of the piece of paper. "All of these questions are referring to the past few days. Let me know when you've finished answering them."

I nervously pick up the pen and start reading through the questions. There are quite a few, all with answers that appear to score anywhere from a zero to a three. As I read each question, I feel more and more confident that I am about to find out I have some sort of serious problem. After five nerve-wracking minutes, I push the completed survey across the desk with more force than necessary. Yeah, like I can just push my problems away with the questionnaire.

Bradford reads silently, occasionally looking up for clarification. "You've been feeling more irritable lately?"

"Yeah."

"And how do you cope with that?"

"I sulk in my apartment." How's that for a euphemism, Doc?

"You drink? More than usual?"

"Maybe two or three beers after work instead of one or two."

"So that would be a 'yes'?"

I bite back a frustrated sigh. "Yes."

"You've been experiencing feelings of guilt or worthlessness," he reads aloud. "Revolving around what? Work? Family? Personal goals?"

"I'm not wealthy and I haven't been able to find a woman to settle down and have kids with," I point out.

"And those things disappoint you?"

"Aren't those the American dream?"

He nods. "For some. Not everyone, though." He gives me a hard look. "Tell me, do you think your father is disappointed that you haven't achieved those things?"

I nod. "Whether or not he wants to vocalize it, I'm sure he feels disappointment on some level."

"Is that why you've been avoiding him?" I'm caught off guard by the question and Bradford pushes further. "Charlie's wealthy – given your father a free home. And he's got a blooming relationship with another professor. Maybe you've been avoiding Charlie, too?"

How in the hell does he know so much about my brother? I think back to the joint session we had and try to recall if we actually discussed all of those things in this office. I'm so caught up in trying to remember that I almost miss Bradford's next question.

"Well, Don? Do you think that's the reason you've stopped going over to your brother's house?"

I shake my head vehemently. "No, there's got to be another reason." Good Lord, was that desperate voice really mine?

He looks back down at the survey, writing a number on the top corner and circling it. "Maybe there is."

I lean forward, silently imploring him to continue.

"You just took the Beck Depression Inventory," he informs me. "And you've scored a thirty-two."

I pause but he doesn't continue. It takes every ounce of strength in my being, but I manage to keep my tone light as I remark, "Did I forget to tell you that numbers are my brother's thing?"

He smiles at me and nods. "There's that old Don I know and respect. Good to have you back, if only for a minute." He clears his throat and taps the paper. "A thirty-two puts you on the low end of severe depression."

I have no idea how that statement makes me feel. Good? Because now I know it's not just me being mopey? Bad? Because now I know there's something wrong with me? I nervously run a hand through my hair and let out a shaky sigh. "So, what now?"

"We treat this thing. Attack it with everything at our disposal, as long as you're willing."

"I want to get better." I realize that's the most conviction I've had in my voice in the past few… months.

Bradford nods. "Good. It's a two-pronged approach. First we get you on some medication so you can rise above the darkness you see around you. Then we have some extra sessions to figure out what's causing this depression."

I nervously chew on my thumbnail. "I don't want to be on happy pills."

"They're not happy pills," he explains with the patience of a saint. "They're SSRIs – selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors." I can only sit and stare at him which he assumes – correctly, I might add – means I'm lost. "Serotonin is the chemical your brain secretes so that you feel good. The body naturally cycles between happy and down moments by controlling the presence of this chemical in your neurons. There are receptors in your brain that reuptake the serotonin as part of the body's natural cycle. So when a person is suffering from depression, we can ease the symptoms by calming these reuptake receptors so you can start to feel good while we look for the root cause." He pauses and I nod my understanding. "That also means you don't stay on them forever, usually six months or a year at the most – just long enough to make sure your symptoms don't come back."

"I can still work? These pills won't make me muddy-brained or anything like that?"

"Not at all," Bradford assures me. "There are possible side effects but nothing that will interfere with day-to-day life."

I lick my lips nervously and rub my hand over my denim-clad thigh. "And this stays confidential?"

"You feel the need to hurt yourself or others?"

"Of course not."

"Then this is one hundred percent confidential."

I rub my neck and find it hard not to smile. Could it be this really _is_ the answer? I look Bradford in the eye and nod. "Let's do this."


	4. Stumbling

"**Stumbling"**

It's been a week since I met with Bradford. A week on the SS-whatever he called them and I'm actually feeling better. He'd warned me that it would probably take two to three weeks to see results but I'm quite pleased to find myself ahead of the norm for a change.

"So Millie's conned me in to attending another fundraiser."

Charlie's casual voice draws my attention and I look up to see him scowling around a piece of steak.

"Pulled the James Bond line on you again?" Dad asks with a twinkle in his eye.

"How do you know about that?" When Dad grins, Charlie immediately waves his hands in the air. "Forget it. I'm almost positive I don't want to know."

"Let me put it this way… I've known how to push your buttons for years."

Charlie lets out an undignified sigh. "And you've been sharing trade secrets with the enemy?"

Our old man shrugs. "She's a fast learner." He glances over at me, undoubtedly expecting me to join in on the teasing banter. His face creases into a frown as he spots my plate. "Something wrong with your steak?"

I look down and see that I've only managed one bite in the past half an hour. "No, it's fine. Just not hungry, I suppose." Oh man, now I'm in for it.

"Okay then," he replies nonchalantly. "How about I put it in the fridge and you'll have it if you want it later?"

"Sure." Oh no, the dead voice again. But… I was feeling fine just a few minutes ago. What happened? I'm suddenly aware of a tension flooding through my body. My knee is bouncing ninety miles an hour under the table and I feel a flush of heat wash down my spine. Is it my imagination or are the walls getting closer? "I, um… I'm going to get some air." I make a point of folding my napkin and setting it on the table, despite the overwhelming desire to simply bolt from the house.

Once outside, I gulp the cool evening air and try to gather what little bit of my wits I have left. I thought this stuff was working. I guess the joke's on me, as usual. That awful feeling of despair rises up in me, making my stomach clench and twist while my head spins. I stumble into the yard and collapse onto my mother's garden bench. Sliding down until I'm uncomfortably sprawled along the hard surface, I stare the evening sky and do my best to keep the tears at bay.

"Three weeks."

I jump at the sound of Charlie's voice and my hand goes to where my gun would be resting if I hadn't left it on the table by the front door. "Don't sneak up on me," I say, my voice sounding as emotionless as I feel.

"Three weeks," he repeats patiently. "Bradford said it would take up to three weeks to start working."

"Up to," I mutter. "I never could get ahead of the curve."

"You have to give this time." Charlie's head appears above me, hovering with the night sky acting as backdrop. "It _will_ get better."

God, I want him to be right. He's always right though, isn't he? Come on, Charlie. Take a turn at the big brother wheel tonight. I'm too proud to ask, but I could really use the support. "How do you know?" Take the hint, Buddy. _Please._

He moves around to the front of the bench, grabs my arm and pulls me to sit upright so he can squeeze in next to me. "Because the numbers say so."

"Really?"

"Eighty percent of people suffering from depression can and do make a full recovery."

I swallow past the lump on my throat. "And the other twenty percent?"

"Those are the people who don't want to get better," he calmly responds. "They don't seek out help, don't have supportive loved ones… don't _want_ to get better." He smiles and squeezes my shoulder. "Besides, those are the bottom twenty percent." He stares at me until he's sure I'm listening carefully. "You've never been in the bottom twenty percent of anything."

"No," I whisper with a shake of my head. "That's true." We sit in silence until I gather up enough courage to tell him what I'm thinking. "I thought I was better, you know. It was only a week, but I was really feeling better and then out of nowhere…"

"The walls closed in? The tension and anxiety were back? The numb feeling took over again?"

I look at him and nod. "How…?"

"I've been reading up on depression. I want to be able to help you and, in order to do that, I need to be fully educated on all of the signs, symptoms… everything."

"That's a lot of work," I state with a hint of guilt. "I'm sorry to put you through that."

"Don," he says, his voice firm – as firm as the iron grip on my shoulder. "Listen to me carefully. You are not 'putting me through this', okay? You're going through something and I'm choosing to go through it with you. Dad is too, so please stop feeling so guilty about it." The grip eases up for a split second before he reaches his arms around me and pulls me into a tight embrace.

"I'm…" I don't dare say 'sorry' again, so I search my limited vocabulary for another word. "I'm glad you're here."

"Of course I'm here," he sighs against my ear. "I love you… Even if you _are_ a stubborn mule."

I laugh against his shoulder and relish the warmth wrapped around me. Sometimes, despite every instinct screaming at me not to allow it, it is nice to let your guard down and let someone else be the rock. My smile broadens as I picture how Bradford's face would look if I ever said that out loud.

It just might be worth it.


End file.
